


The Jaws of Defeat

by EllenFremedon



Series: The Knights of Mount Royal [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Habs, Knights of Mount Royal, Montreal Canadiens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 19:29:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4071904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenFremedon/pseuds/EllenFremedon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When three knights and a sadly small company of soldiers are sent against the supply train of the Lord of Sharks, the results are predictably unfortunate. Grown from a writing prompt, this story will eventually figure in as one of many tales of the Knights of Mount Royal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Jaws of Defeat

**Author's Note:**

> Events VERY loosely based around the November 2013 4-0 loss to the San Jose Sharks.

When the Prince of Eller came to, he was blindfolded and lying on his side with his hands pinned behind him. There was a roaring in his ears, but whether it was wind in trees or the sea, or a result of the blow to his head, he wasn't sure. He couldn't hear Sir Alex, but that might explain why he himself was gagged. Alex never did know when to shut up. But then, it was his own inability to bite back a snarky comment that had earned him the blow that had knocked him out, so he didn't have much by way of moral high ground. On the plus side, however, his feet were still free.

He shook his head, trying to clear it, but the roaring remained. He sighed and attempted to settle himself in a more comfortable position, but the ground was rocky, or perhaps broken by roots, which made comfort nearly impossible. However his movements loosened the ropes on his wrists fractionally. He hoped Sir Rene would win his way back to camp and send someone to find them sooner rather than later, though what a handful of knights could do against a whole company of men - even if said handful included the Lion of Prust (as it no doubt would) - he didn't entirely want to contemplate. The entire operation had been a disaster from beginning to end, the latest in a long string of disasters really, but what on earth could he have done differently? They were _bound_ to get caught, three knights and a pitifully small company to cut the heavily guarded supply train of the Lord of Sharks (guarded, as it unfortunately turned out, by the Prince of Couture and Lord Niemi himself). It had been enough to break even the General's composure, and he had given them their orders with an even grimmer sternness than usual.

As the aching and roaring in his head subsided, he became aware of the sound of scuffling and muffled, wordless expressions of frustration somewhere off to his left, and the smell of a fire blending with mouldering vegetation - so not the sea then. He suspected the sounds came from the younger knight, who was terrible at keeping still under the best of circumstances, and _detested_ any forms of restraint. However none of this information got him anywhere. Maxwell would never let him live this down, provided he ever made it back to camp. He suspected that if they died here, Max and Brendan would follow them wherever the souls of dead men went, and drag them back to the land of the living that they might send them back themselves.

Sir Lars continued to work the ropes behind him, though what he was going to do if and when he freed his hands, he did not know. If he did manage to escape the ropes, he could hardly risk removing his blindfold too without knowing whether there were guards stationed or where the rest of the men in the camp were. There was a prolonged and a slightly louder struggle on his left followed by boots, through what appeared to be leaves, stalking towards them followed by a thud, a grunt - it was definitely Alex on his left - and a hissed "Silence!" Alex subsided and the steps retreated again. So there was no guard nearby, but they _were_ being watched. It also occurred to him suddenly that for what should have been a good sized camp, out in the open, it was eerily quiet. There were no birds, no small forest noises, nothing beyond the deliberately muffled sounds of men moving around camp, and the wind. Even the horses were quiet. He didn't like it at all.

A long, wavering horn blast split the silence so suddenly that his head jerked and promptly smacked on a root. That was definitely a root. The wind was roaring again, and it bore the sound of thundering hooves, many hooves. Now the the camp was in an uproar. The horn sounded again, this time ending on a far too familiar flourish - the hunting call of House Pacioretty. If Lars hadn't been so relieved - or so blindfolded - he would have rolled his eyes. It was a fairly safe bet that Brendan and Karl would be there with Sir Rene, Sir Ryan, and the Lion, of course, probably present entirely without permission. If they made it through, the return to camp would likely be an unpleasant affair. Again.

In all the confusion that followed, he managed to work his way free of his bonds and removed his blindfold and gag. He blinked, temporarily blinded by the the light, grey and tree-shadowed as it was, and then the rescue party swam into focus. There were a surprising number of them: some fifty odd lesser knights from the light cavalry had carved a swath into the disordered camp. Sir Maxwell's dark-maned grey danced where the fighting was the thickest, and Sir Brendan and Sir Karl rode beside him. Sir Ryan's black wing on orange flew in the wind with Sir Brandon's rampant lion, as expected, but there also rode Sir Douglas, a colossal, nightmare figure in his black armour, flanked by his towering squire, Jarred. There too were Lord Moen, Sir Daniel, Sir Rene and most surprisingly of all, General Gionta himself.

Lars hauled himself to his feet and staggered back against the tree behind him willing his head to stop spinning. The fighting was swirling nearer and nearer to them, with most of the Shark’s men dead or fled, Sir Douglas and Jarred were closing in from one side, and Brendan from the other, Max too had seen them and ridden down four soldiers without pausing in his haste to reach them. He breathed a sigh of relief and finding his legs more steady, carefully made his way over to where Alex lay. He nearly received a kick for his troubles, but at his hissed protest, the flailing subsided, and Lars was able to pull off his companion’s blindfold. The gag and the ropes binding his wrists, on the other hand, were too tight to remove without a blade. However, before he could so much as move towards one of the fallen soldiers to take his sword, one of the soldiers retreating from the onslaught of his would-be rescuers lunged at him. After a brief tussle, in which his weak limbs would not do as he bid, he found himself seized from behind, and felt a wickedly sharp blade pressed hard against his throat. Even as he stiffened he couldn't help feeling that he should have known the rescue had been going too well.


End file.
